The Shuck Dog
by sapienlover
Summary: Magnificent 7 - ATF Universe. Team Seven have a run-in with an ancient being, a red demon and a giant hound. Mayhem ensues. A crossover with Mike Mignola's Hellboy. Originally in the crossover section but hardly anyone found it, so moved it to to M7. Hope that's okay.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note – **_This tale amalgamates two legends – that of the Wild Hunt, and the even more sinister appearance of the black dog, portent of death … The 'Shuck' Dog. Both are European legends, but as you will discover their hunting ground can just as easily be the great mountain stretches of modern Colorado. I've bent the legends to fit the story, but hey, this is fiction, right? _

_The ATF universe is Mog's, bless her, but Diablo the dog belongs to that wonderful lady and dear friend and advisor, Heather F. I must thank her most profusely for allowing Diablo to come along and meet Hellboy. I have a soft spot for Labradors, as has HB._

_Hellboy in his comic book form belongs wholly to that genius of the written word, Mr Mike Mignola – but in his movie persona, he belongs to Sony, Revolution Studio and all the other PTB that forked out the dosh to make the film. But in reality he belongs to three people alone – the aforementioned Mister Mignola, Mister Guillermo del Toro whose script and inspired direction brought HB to the screen, and, of course, Mister Ron Perlman, who – quite simply – IS Hellboy. This one's for you, guys._

* * *

It was all Maude's fault, really, Ezra decided.

If Chris hadn't mentioned a weathervane, and if Ezra hadn't been feeling – uncharacteristically, he had to admit – a little beneficent, and if he hadn't mentioned this unusual request to his mother, now touring England and imposing herself on her few friends in the country, it would never have happened.

But still, one was always wiser after the damage was done …

* * *

"I want a weathervane." Chris Larabee was adamant.

"A what?" JD frowned.

Larabee set his jaw stubbornly. He had a birthday coming up and he was recovering from three broken ribs gained when a part-broken gelding slipped in the corral while Chris was schooling him. The young horse had fallen heavily and Chris had managed to roll free but smacked up against one of the corral posts. The gelding was none the worse for wear, but Chris … well, he was not a happy fella. One trip to Mercy Hospital later, he was back at the ranch feeling sore, grumpy and very sorry for himself.

The team rallied around their fallen leader. They were there to support him in his hour of need, help out with the chores, and generally piss him off royally just for the sheer hell of it. Half the time Chris didn't know whether to laugh or ream them out. He would've done both if his ribs didn't hurt so goddamn much.

They teased, bitched and nagged, raided his refrigerator, fed titbits to his old dog Diablo even though Nathan protested it was bad for the animal's guts – and was proved right when Diablo spent a happy couple of nights emitting pungent, explosive odours that even JD complained about. He said the dog was worse'n Buck – and that was saying something. Buck took exception to that foul slur and protested. Mayhem ensued.

Still, things got done about the small ranch that needed fixin' – fences were mended, a broken board on the porch was replaced, and the final job was finishing the roof on the old barn. It had been damaged the previous winter by a blizzard, and although it was patched, Chris had fretted about it, wanting the roof fixed properly before the fall. Well, fall was here and Chris wasn't fit to climb a ladder, so the rest of the Seven pitched in during their weekend off. Soon the barn roof was as good as new.

It was after Vin Tanner taunted Chris about his upcoming birthday that the blond decided he would stump them and demanded a weathervane.

"But not just any old weathervane … I want something different. A little bit quirky, maybe," he'd said.

The rest of Team Seven looked up at the apex of the barn roof and thought about it. Well, maybe the building could do with a little something to brighten it up. Chris trudged gingerly back into the house to grab a coffee while they tossed around ideas.

"What about one of those weathervanes with a racehorse on it? You know, like they have in Kentucky at them fancy studs," Vin said.

"Oh please, Mr Tanner! Our revered leader wishes for something d_ifferent_. Anyway, they do tend to look a little tacky, don't you think?" Ezra's green eyes were thoughtful.

"What about a witch on a broomstick?" JD suggested. "It'll be Halloween at the end of next month – that'd be cool!"

"The traditional crowing cockerel looks about right to me," Nathan said.

"That's more in Mr Wilmington's line, wouldn't you say?" Ezra scoffed.

"Hey!" Buck tried to sound insulted but couldn't contain a grin. "Cock of the walk, Ez … can't argue with that! Okay … what about a joke one? Y'know, with a nice, curvy lady - "

"Don't think that'll go down very well with Mary, Buck, do you? Let alone what Casey and Nettie will think." Josiah let his mobile mouth curve into a smile. "What about a dog? Seein' as old Diablo spends a lot of his time stinking the place out - "

"Wouldn't've done if you'd not fed him those damn tortilla chips! Jeez, fellas, you weren't the ones who had him sleepin' by your bed all night!" growled Nathan. "Remind me to get some of those charcoal biscuits …"

"A dog, you say?" Ezra interrupted before Josiah could protest his innocence and try to blame JD. "Perhaps … hmmm." His green eyes twinkled. "I think … I think, dear compatriots, that I will contact Mother."

"Maude?" Buck yelped. "What the hell does Maude have to do with it? Christ, Ez, if Chris knows you dragged Maude into it - "

"Chris will never know, believe me." Ezra grinned, his face dimpling into that shit-eating expression that usually signalled 'trouble' to those who knew him. "Mother," he continued, "is in Europe, inflicting herself on those poor benighted souls she likes to describe as her 'dear, dear, friends'. Since that debacle with the racehorse syndicate, she owes me a favour or three. This merely sounds like the perfect opportunity to call in the markers."

The rest of them grinned. Maude, for once in her life, had involved herself in a scheme about which she knew very little. A friend of her fourth husband – or was it fifth, Ezra could never remember – had involved Maude in the syndication of a young, immaculately-bred stallion, winner of a few European Group One races including one of the minor Classics. The horse had a pair of suspiciously lumpy front legs that necessitated a quick retirement before the racing pundits picked up on his unsoundness, and he was unceremoniously hustled off to perpetuate his brilliant speed and unsoundness in future generations. Maude spent a great deal of time charming clients – most of whom knew little or nothing about the horse – into parting with money to buy the animal and packing him off to a stud in Kentucky, where he was syndicated at a hundred thousand dollars a share … with a hefty commission for Maude. In racing parlance, Maude decided, she was on to a sure thing. But as she gleefully rubbed her hands together at the thought of all the money she was collecting, it became painfully obvious that the horse wasn't doing the job for which God designed him. He was, to put it bluntly, firing blanks.

Maude, the consummate con artist, had been bamboozled. With investors baying for her blood the 'friend' of her ex-husband skedaddled. Maude was in the manure up to her neck, and it took all of Ezra's clout and bald-faced bravado to go undercover and discover that the horse had been known to be infertile before Maude had even been involved. The sperm tests done on the horse had been conveniently switched with those of an old, hairy but incredibly fertile cart stallion standing at an anonymous-looking farm in Sussex, England. The culprits were nobbled, the stallion proven to be the worthless beast he most certainly was and given to a farm hand as a pet, and Maude escaped arrest by a hair's breadth. She owed Ezra big-time.

Ezra felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Ez, you got a real mean streak in ya, you know that, don't you?" Vin's blue eyes danced with good humour.

"Who? _Moi?_" Ezra put his hand on his chest in mock horror. "Surely you jest, Mister Tanner! As if I would do such a thing to my dear, beloved Mother …"

A veritable explosion of derisive snorts greeted his words as the six men headed into the house.

* * *

It soon became obvious as the next couple of weeks went by that Ezra was having the time of his life.

Maude had acquiesced to Ezra's request only under extreme threats of blackmail concerning some unspecified detail regarding the 'bloodstock problem', as Ezra called it. A flurry of emails and telephone calls, all of which were relayed to the rest of the seven either by an incredibly smug Standish or via the speaker phone in the Team Seven office, saw Ezra gloat happily as Maude tried to fob him off first with excuses for not searching through auction houses and antique shops. When that didn't work, she decided that Chris would be better off with a piece of porcelain, although what the boorish heathen would do with a fine Meissen vase she could not imagine. But Ezra was firm. No matter how hard Maude moaned, berated, whined and pleaded, Ezra would not be moved – Chris Larabee wanted a weathervane with a dog on it, and a weathervane with a dog on it was what he was going to get.

For almost a week there was silence.

Ezra was beginning to become suspicious until one Monday morning, the telephone rang just as he sat down at his desk and sadly surveyed the paperwork stacked into a neat pile before him.

It was Maude.

"Ezra, darling! How are you?"

Standish frowned. She was far too sweet. Something was up.

"Mother dearest, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten our little agreement." he said, then put the receiver on the speaker so his now-curious _compadres _could hear.

Maude positively gushed.

"Sweetness, now why on earth would you think that?"

Ezra opened his mouth to give her at least six reasons as to why he would think exactly that, but Maude cut him off before he could utter a word.

"I have sent a parcel to you by courier, Ezra – you should have it some time within the next twenty-four hours. It has taken me _ages_ to find it, so I knew you would want it straight away."

"Mother, I - " Ezra, for once, was caught on the hop and Maude knew it. There was a distinctly triumphant note in her voice as she prattled on.

"Ezra, my dear, dear boy, I found the perfect weathervane! Binky Talbot - I'm staying with Binky at the estate. You remember Binky, don't you?" Maude waited a second, giving Ezra enough time to take a breath then continued on regardless, knowing how Ezra hated to be interrupted. "Well, Binky's invited me to stay a few weeks here at the hall – Fairfield Hall, outside East Bromwich? Remember?"

Ezra remembered Binky Talbot and Fairfield Hall all right. He remembered a huge, crumbling pile rotting elegantly in the wilds of the English countryside, and its owner, Captain Reginald 'Binky' Talbot, a round, blustering man whose main talent was drinking fine claret and spending the family inheritance – of which there was now very little – as quickly as he could. Ezra had spent six weeks of his twelfth summer there, and his main recollection was of huge, endless rooms, perpetually damp labradors – of which there seemed to be an horrendous number – and no Maude. She was involved in some scheme with Binky that involved insider trading, and after spending weeks of his summer vacation wandering around the building, Ezra had left quickly and quietly in the night with Maude, who had appeared at midnight looking flustered. She had packed Ezra and their belongings into a taxi and within hours they had been on a plane heading for Boston. All Ezra had garnered from the experience was a chest cold and a lifelong loathing of wet dogs. Binky had escaped imprisonment by the skin of his teeth and minus a large portion of his fast-dwindling inheritance. He apparently did not hold Maude's abandoning of him against her during his time of need.

"Anyway," Maude went on, "Binky found the thing lying in one of the stables under a tarpaulin. Said it was a family heirloom, but he would be happy to pass it on to someone who would appreciate it. Don't worry darling – it didn't cost a cent. And I hope all this effort on my part will clear up any differences between us about the bloodstock incident." Her voice became urgent. "Must go – Binky came into another inheritance – some ancient uncle, I believe, had a seizure and left him a couple of million. Binky thought it would be fun to try a business venture. All very hush-hush. I'll talk to you in a week or two, perhaps."

And then she was gone.

Ezra blinked at the telephone lying in its cradle, and then looked at the five faces watching him in expectation and not a little amusement. Once more, Ezra had the uneasy feeling he'd been duped by his canny parent.

"That was Mother," he said, somewhat needlessly.

"Still the same, it seems," smiled Josiah.

"So, Ez – a weathervane! Cool!" JD, as always, was enthusiasm personified.

Ezra sank back in his chair and steepled his fingers together thoughtfully.

"Yes, well, Mister Dunne – we shall see ... we shall see ..." he said. Ezra suddenly felt a chill of forboding, but he shook it off. Dealings with Maude invariably left a sour taste in his mouth. He sighed. Well, at least he had made her squirm a little for a few weeks. Surveying anew the pile of paperwork, he lifted his pen and grimly set to work.

* * *

"Wow!" said a thoroughly impressed JD Dunne.

The seven were standing in the ATF parking lot as the leader of Team Seven unwrapped the package sitting on the cold ground before him. Maude had been right – less than twenty-four hours after her telephone call, a parcel had been delivered by courier to ATF headquarters, for the attention of Agent Ezra P. Standish. It lay in a vacant space, and Ezra had willingly handed the package over to a still-sore Larabee, who had eyed it doubtfully. The rest of the team had crowded around and demanded to see what the package contained, and Larabee had hesitated but a moment, then unwrapped the huge, bulky parcel.

There before him lay a weathervane, as expected. The thing was enormous. Approximately eight feet high, each of the arms that indicated the four directions of the compass stretched out to a length of over three feet. It was made of iron, that was obvious, and it seemed to be very old indeed. But the striking thing about it was the creature that crowned the whole contraption. It was a dog, as Chris had demanded. But what a dog it was! Six feet long from outstretched nose to the tip of its tail, the dog was frozen in mid stride. Cut from a single sheet of metal, it nevertheless gave the impression of power and swiftness. But what really made the impact were the eyes. They were large and glaring, and the animal flew with mouth agape, eyes staring in what appeared to be terror – or was it glee, Ezra wondered uneasily – as it bounded along the iron bar that supported it.

"Jeez, Ez! Now _that's_ what I call a weathervane!" Buck was enthusiastic.

The rest of the seven were highly impressed, and as for Chris ... well, he couldn't take his eyes off it. He ran a hand over the animal's head and back, feeling the cold smoothness of the ancient iron, a soft smile on his normally austere face.

"It must be at least three hundred years old, Ezra! If Maude had had to buy it she would have paid a fortune! Why the hell did her friend just give it away – he could've lived off the proceeds for months!" Josiah said, shaking his head in puzzlement as he bent over the weathervane, studying the detail.

Ezra didn't answer. He studied the metal hound and felt his skin crawl. He couldn't even bring himself to touch it, although the rest of the seven were busy investigating the metalwork and weight of the weathervane. Ezra hated it on sight. It exuded something … something … _rotten_, he was sure. Those glaring eyes pierced through him and chilled him to the bone.

Chris turned to the undercover agent, his green-gold eyes alive with pleasure.

"Ezra, I gotta say it – this is something else." He proffered a hand. "Thanks. This means a lot to me."

Standish stared at the hand as though Larabee had offered him a fistful of maggots.

"You're welcome, Chris," he finally managed to reply, although the words fought against the bile rising in his throat.

As Ezra watched his friends load the weathervane into the back of Chris' Ram, he felt his stomach rebel, and only with the greatest self-control did he stop himself from vomiting. He swallowed noisily.

Josiah turned to Ezra as he watched Chris drive out of the underground lot.

"That was some present, Ezra, I have to say. It's a beautiful thing, and Lord only knows what it's worth. Maude came through for once, huh?"

Ezra looked up into warm azure eyes, and the comforting presence of the big profiler eased the rebelliousness of his stomach.

"Yes, I suppose so …" He thought for a moment or two. "Josiah … how do you feel about it? I mean," he hastened to add as Josiah frowned in puzzlement, "does it … well … do you get any impressions from it?"

Josiah shook his head.

"You mean as in 'vibes', that sort of stuff?" Seeing Ezra's nod, he shrugged. "Nope. Not a thing. You?"

Ezra swallowed bile. He could hardly get the words out.

"I ah … I find the thing somewhat … disconcerting, I must say." Ezra couldn't for the life of him figure out why he didn't say how much he loathed the object. Never in his varied and often dangerous life had he ever come across anything that had shaken him as much as that old iron weathervane.

Josiah clapped a hand on Ezra's shoulder.

"Well, Brother Standish, I think what you need is a stiff scotch – malt, of course. Come on Ez – my treat."

Ezra looked once more at Josiah's expectant face. Sanchez had not poo-pooed the idea of 'negative vibes', as he would have phrased it in his aging-hippyish way, but was obviously not in the mood to discuss it. Nodding, he dug out the keys to the Jag and watched as Josiah headed over to his old, rackety Suburban. Unlocking the Jag he paused for a moment before he eased himself into the comfortable leather seat.

But as he saw Josiah drive the Suburban out of the lot he shuddered. Josiah had not seen what he had seen. Josiah had not seen Cuervo, the cat that lived in the basement lot, crouched against the rear wall beside the Jag with his back arched and his tail stuck out like a bottle-brush. His rich coat was raised along his spine and his green eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. The weathervane. Cuervo was terrified of the weathervane.

But even then Standish might have shrugged it off, but for something that happened as he watched the metal artefact loaded into the back of the Ram. As he watched his friends laugh and joke, Standish had become aware of something that had struck chords in his memory. A smell assailed his nostrils. It was the unforgettable odour of wet dog hair – but mixed with something else. He shuddered again as he sat in the Jag and shut the door. The smell had been foetid, rank … the smell of something long gone from this world. Then he suddenly understood what it was.

It was the smell of death.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It took most of the following Saturday for the seven to finally fix the new weathervane to the apex of the barn roof at Chris' ranch. A base was built and reinforced with angle iron, then a neighbour came with his 'cherry-picker' to lift the cumbersome artefact into place. An hour later, after a plethora of bad language, a scare when Buck nearly fell off the roof, and a couple of yelps of pain as Josiah mashed his thumb with a hammer, and they were finished.

Ezra watched all of the activity from the porch of Chris' house. Never one to indulge in any form of manual labour, he was doubly unwilling to go anywhere near the weathervane. So when it was attached to the 'cherry-picker' and hauled up into the air, swinging gently as Buck and Nathan manoeuvred it into place, Ezra felt the nausea clench in his belly. As it swung around those glaring eyes watched him, and Standish felt every hair on his head prickle in fear. It was almost as though the thing _knew_ he was terrified.

To offset any complaints about his lack of willingness to help, he had brought dinner, and even Chris had to admit it was a feast fit for a king. Rack of lamb with all the trimmings, a rich, thick vegetable soup for starters and strawberry shortcake to finish. Not Ezra's usual choice of food – he preferred a repast with some style about it - but welcome indeed to his six compatriots as they wandered back into the house, breath misting in the chill air and ready for a hot meal.

Vin almost tripped over Diablo as he wandered into the hall.

"Damn it!" he said, as he righted himself, then leaned over to rumple the old dog's ears. Diablo beetled greying eyebrows at the young sharpshooter, and thumped his tail once on the wooden floor, but did not move.

Chris hung his coat up on the rack.

"Dumb ol' mutt's been there for nigh on a week. Don't know what the hell's got into him, but I'm damned if I can get him to even go outside to take a leak. He only goes when he's just about crossin' his legs, then he does what he has to do and shoots back in here like the devil was on his tail." The blond shook his head in weary resignation. "He's just gettin' old and likes his comfort too much I guess. Maybe he's beginning to feel the cold or something."

Nathan bent over and stroked the broad, otter-like head and Diablo gave him a grunt of pleasure, but still the old labrador stayed where he was.

"Maybe he has a touch of rheumatics, Chris. Might be worth a trip to the vet for a check-up. Maybe he needs some anti-inflammatories."

Chris studied his dog with affection and a little sadness. Dogs didn't live forever, and he knew Diablo wouldn't be with him for more than a few years at most.

"Yeah. I'll make an appointment on Monday and see what's what. Funny though – he was okay last week. He even chased a rabbit in the top pasture, went after it like a damn cruise missile. Nothing wrong with him then."

Six of the seven pondered the vagaries of doggy physiology while the seventh knew exactly what was wrong with Diablo. The dog was too patently terrified to go outside.

Ezra turned his mind away from the weathervane that now sat proudly atop the barn, swinging gently in the breeze as night fell. The temperature was falling fast, and it was obvious there would be a heavy overnight frost. The seven were staying at the ranch for the night and helping Chris tidy up the barn the next day before returning to their respective homes. He watched as Josiah closed the front door behind him, shutting out the cold and the ensuing dark, and Ezra let out a sigh of relief. He plastered a smile onto his face and turned to his team-mates.

"Well, gentlemen, I hope you're hungry – dinner is served!"

There were exclamations of delight as food was placed upon the table in Chris' roomy kitchen, and soon they were all sitting chatting, swapping stories and generally chilling out after a hard day's work. Even Ezra, although still tense and unnerved by his reaction to the weathervane – unexplained though it was – began to relax, and by they time the all drifted to their respective beds, he fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

Ezra awoke with a start.

For a moment he was disorientated, unsure of where he was. Blinking, he looked about the room. Polished pine walls ... pictures of horses ... an old, battered rocking chair in the corner draped with clothes. Larabee's. He was at Larabee's. Happier now that he knew where he was, he turned his mind to whatever had awoken him.

He heard soft breathing and looked over at the sofa bed on the other side of the room. Josiah Sanchez's big, brawny six-foot-two frame sprawled there, the profiler sound asleep on his front, curly head tucked into the hollow of an up-flung arm. Ezra sighed. He had to sleep on the camp bed because, as Josiah succinctly put it, "I ain't built for camp beds, son – and besides, I'm older than you. You should take care of your elders." No amount of wheedling on Ezra's part could convince the big man otherwise, so Ezra had to fold his lean frame onto an uncomfortable, rickety camp bed that had definitely seen better days.

But apart from Josiah's breathing and occasional soft snore, he could hear nothing. Turning over and muttering quietly about the inconsiderate way in which his comrades treated him, Ezra was on the point of drifting back to sleep when the noise came again. A hard, sharp banging made him jump, and then came a terrified flurry of neighs. What the hell was wrong with the horses?

Ezra lay still for a moment or two, half hoping that the others would be woken by the racket, but he realised instantly that no one else was stirring. He was on his own. He thought for a moment about waking Josiah, but the big man was exhausted after a very trying week – his sister had been ill with gastric flu and he had spent all of his spare moments with her at the care facility until she was well on the road to recovery, despite Chris telling him to take some personal time and get some rest. But Josiah being Josiah, he was a stubborn cuss and carried on working all hours as well as taking care of Hannah.

Hauling his tired body out of bed, Ezra slipped into his clothes and put on his heavy jacket. As he fastened his boots, a thought struck him. The horses were in the barn. _The barn_. His blood ran cold and the familiar feeling of nausea struck him once again. He didn't want to go anywhere near the barn. But the banging came once again, this time of hooves kicking heavily against wooden stalls, and the terrified neighing became louder. This time Ezra knew he had to go outside and find out just what the hell was going on.

_Come on Standish! Get a grip, man! You've faced down some of the most dangerous gun runners in the world and won, so why on earth are you frightened of something you can't even see? It's your imagination, you idiot! Get out there and see to those horses – it's probably a possum rattling around in a feed bin …_

As he made his way quietly out of the bedroom, he toyed with the idea of waking one or two of the others, but dismissed the idea. If it _was_ a possum, then he would never live it down. Scaredy-cat Standish. Ezra winced. He could hear the derisory comments already.

Walking as silently as he could, he crept into the hallway. Lifting a flashlight from the hallstand, he opened the front door and stepped outside.

And was instantly bathed in the cold, gilded light of a full moon. Frost glistened like diamonds on trees stark against an ink-black sky filled with faint stars, faded by the brilliance of a moon that hung enormous and glowing on this cold night. In the distance the mountains stood cold and remote, rigid fingers of chill rock and snow reaching into the endless heavens. It was a night in which every sound, however small, echoed in the frozen, crystalline air.

Ezra exhaled noisily and saw his breath plume in the still air. Pulling up the collar of his heavy sheepskin jacket he clumped down the steps of the porch and headed towards the barn, the sound of his boots unnaturally loud in the stillness. The building loomed ominously ahead of him, all shadows and light in the brilliance of moon-shine, and the horses seemed to have quietened a little, the only sounds now coming from the barn being the occasional snort and thump.

He steadfastly refused to look up at the weathervane.

Reaching the barn door he opened it and stepped in, reaching for the light switch, and then suddenly remembered with a curse that the electricity supply to the building was still disconnected while they repaired the roof. An electrician was scheduled to come and do some rewiring in a couple of weeks, ready for the winter. Digging out his flashlight he switched it on … just in time to see a racoon skitter over one of the hay bales and out through a small broken board in the side of the barn.

Ezra laughed out loud. Stupid, stupid, stupid! It wasn't a possum … it was a racoon, that was all! Feeling a whole lot better he set about checking the horses, discovering to his relief that they seemed to be more settled now the racoon had gone. Perhaps the noise of the critter nosing about in the bins and knocking over a couple of metal buckets had set them off, he decided. Breaking up a couple of hay bales he gave each horse a fresh load of fodder and left them happily pulling mouthfuls of Lucerne hay from the racks and munching contentedly. Making one final circuit of the barn interior and checking that the bins were tightly lidded to prevent any more intrusions by possums _or_ racoons, Ezra left the animals to their food and went back outside into the sharp brilliance of the moon-glow.

Closing the barn door behind him Ezra switched off the flashlight and trudged wearily towards the house. He was very, very tired, the stress of the past few days beginning to wear on him, and he longed for sleep. Even the camp-bed began to sound good – just to rest his head on his pillow and curl up under the quilt and warm blankets, safe from the intrusion of the real world. There he could rest … there he could dream …

But as he listened to his boots ring out loud on the frozen ground, a thought began to form in his mind. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He felt as though he was being watched. Hunching his shoulders, Ezra steadfastly set his eyes to the welcoming patch of darkness on the porch that was the front door. Behind that door, he thought, was warmth and friendship … behind the door were his friends, who would make sure he was safe and sound … behind that door, he realised with a jolt, was his family.

But as he walked on, hearing nothing but his boots and the rustle and whisper of his jacket as he tucked the flashlight under his arm and shoved his hands into his pockets, he got the sudden urge to look back at the barn.

_No_, he realised with a flare of terror … _I want to look at that damn weathervane …_

The porch was nearer now, its broad steps urging him onwards, and Ezra began to tell himself that he was nearly there … nearly home … just a few more steps … he couldn't look back … he knew if he did, he would see … what? What would he see? The breath hissed between his teeth and he fought the urge to run pell-mell into the house and slam the door behind him and stay there in the dark, safe from whatever was watching him – because he _was_ being watched, he was sure of that now.

_Calm down, Standish … don't break now … keep cool … how many times have you kept your head and saved your life … don't look … if you look you're dead … don't look … don't goddamn look!_

Before he could stop himself, he turned around and looked up at the weathervane.

* * *

The scream of terror brought Chris Larabee upright in his bed with a start, his healing ribs making him gasp with pain.

"_What the hell was that?_"

Buck's voice was loud in the dark.

Larabee heard Wilmington stumble out of bed in the next room, followed by JD's mumbled exclamations of alarm.

"Ez? Ez, where are you?" Vin Tanner was heard hopping on one foot in the living room as he leapt out of his bedroll and tried to get into his battered jeans by the light of the dying fire. Then Nathan's voice was heard as he tripped over his boots, joined by Josiah's rumbling baritone as the big profiler stumbled groggily from the sofa bed in the other guest room.

It took the six members of Team Seven less than a minute to get themselves up and partially dressed, and all of them found their way into the entrance hall only to be met by an unidentified body hurling itself through the open front door to collapse in a heap at Josiah's feet.

Josiah fell to his knees and turned the huddled body over.

"Ezra! What the hell happened! Are you okay? Nathan! Nate, Ez needs you!" he yelled, then turned back to the man he cradled in his arms. "Ez … are you all right, son? C'mon Ez, talk to me!"

Ezra P. Standish lay curled into Josiah's broad chest for long moments and Josiah thought at first the undercover agent had not heard him. The man was shaking violently, and Josiah was alarmed to see something in Ezra's green gaze that shook him to the core. Ezra was terrified into silence. His mouth was working, trying to get the words out, but nothing was happening.

"Bring him into the sitting room, Josiah … let's get him warmed up, he's frozen." Nathan said, his voice injecting a note of calm into the proceedings.

Helped by Buck and Vin, Josiah got to his feet and lifted the smaller man in his arms, carrying him through to the living room and depositing him on the couch. Vin lifted his bedroll and slipped it around Ezra's shoulders, while Josiah tried to rub some warmth into frozen hands. Nathan retrieved some heat-packs from his kit and warmed them in the microwave, then slipped them under Standish's armpits where they would help to take the chill out of his body. JD arrived moments later with a hot mug of milky tea, which Josiah held to Ezra's chapped, dry lips.

Slowly but surely, minute by long, agonising minute, Ezra came back to them. Recognition crept into hollow green eyes, and hands hesitantly crept around the mug and held it. The shivering began to subside, and Ezra took a few deep breaths as though to clear his head.

"Ez? Ezra, how do you feel now? Better?" Nathan checked the back of Ezra's hands, nodding in satisfaction at the warmth there.

Chris sat down on the chair beside the couch and studied his undercover agent. He had to admit to himself that he had never seen Ezra like this – he may well be a sneaky, cagey, arrogant, irritating little bastard at times, but one thing Ezra wasn't, was a coward. Whatever had happened to him had scared the unholy shit out of him.

"You want to tell us what happened," he asked gently, as JD brought through hot drinks for them all.

Ezra gazed back at the sea of anxious faces around him. How could he tell them? They would think he was crazy. Crazy as a coot on crack. They would never believe him, and label him as a _bona fide_ lunatic or, far worse, an attention-seeking liar. No, he wouldn't – _c_o_uldn't _ – tell them.

"I …" His voice was hoarse with emotion. "I went to check on the horses … they … they were making a noise," he whispered, and took another sip of the hot tea. His friends waited, giving him time to collect his thoughts. Ezra let the hot mug warm his hands, then continued. "I think … I think it was a bear. Saw something … something big. Frightened the hell out of me," he added, giving them a shaky smile.

Vin clapped Ezra on the shoulder.

"Bear, huh? Chris, I'll go take a turn around the yard, just in case. Buck, you comin'?"

Wilmington grinned, happier now that Ezra seemed to be getting his bearings.

"Sure, junior. Probably just a racoon though, knowin' Ez!"

"No, Mister Wilmington … I can assure you it most certainly wasn't a racoon … not this time," Ezra added quietly.

Buck, Vin and JD spent the next half hour checking the barn, yard and corrals, and found nothing amiss. Meanwhile the rest of the Seven returned to their beds to get some much-needed sleep. Soon all seven were tucked up in their respective beds, and as Josiah lay on his back staring up at the ceiling he could hear Buck's deep, rhythmic snoring through the wall.

The drapes were pulled shut on the window, but there was enough moonlight creeping into the room around the edges to illuminate the camp bed in the corner of the room. He listened for a while, then spoke.

"Ezra?"

"Mmmm?"

"You awake?"

"I am now, Mister Sanchez. Is there a problem? Do you need a bedtime story, perhaps?"

Josiah had to smile at the cynical drawl in Ezra's voice. He was almost back to normal.

"No son, I'm a bit too old for that sort of thing, don't you think?" Josiah was silent for a moment or two, then took a breath. "Ez … it wasn't a bear you saw out there, was it? It was something else."

He looked over at Ezra, now lying on his back on the camp bed. His face looked white in the faint moonlight.

"No, Josiah. It wasn't a bear."

Josiah took a deep breath.

"Do you want to tell me what you _did_ see out there? What frightened you so damn much you couldn't even speak?" He waited a few moments, and when Ezra didn't reply he continued. "It's all right to be scared Ezra … it's part of being human, you know that as well as anyone. It'll be between you and me, you know that. The others never need to know."

He heard Ezra take a deep, shivering breath before he spoke.

"Remember when I asked you about the weather vane back at headquarters that day? About how the thing completely 'freaked me out' as JD would say? Well, when I came back to the house, I … I _felt_ something. I didn't want to look at it … the weather vane, I mean … I really didn't. But I had to … I was _compelled_ to. So … I did."

When Ezra didn't continue, Josiah felt he had to prompt him. "So? What did you see?"

"It was more what I _didn't_ see, Josiah. The dog … well, it was gone. _It wasn't there_."

Despite himself, Josiah felt a chill run down his spine.

"Gone? You mean someone took the weather vane?"

Ezra sighed.

"No, I mean the _dog was gone_. The weather vane was still there, and so was the bar … but the dog _wasn't_. It was as though it had come alive and leaped off the roof, Josiah. That's when I started to run. But just as I got to the porch, I tripped and stumbled, and as I picked myself up I inadvertently looked back to the barn. And there it was, standing on the ridge of the barn roof, looking at me with those great, big, saucer eyes … dear God almighty, Josiah, I thought I was going to die!" Ezra's voice cracked. "I don't remember much after that, until I stumbled into the house."

Josiah rubbed a hand over his face in shock, smoothing down his moustache. He knew with absolute certainty that Ezra was telling the truth, and he knew in his heart of hearts that the man had seen something. What he had seen, Josiah wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it had scared Ezra almost out of his wits.

Both of them lay quietly for a long while after that, and Josiah heard Ezra's breathing slow and deepen, and knew he was asleep at last. Perhaps things would look better in the cold light of day. But somehow Josiah knew it wouldn't. And he didn't know if there was a damn thing he could do about it.

But as he began to slide into sleep himself, just as the shadows of slumber crept through his tired body and he slipped into oblivion, he heard something.

Outside, he could have sworn there was a noise.

Beneath the moon-washed window he heard a deep, rasping breathing, and then a series of seeking, searching sniffs. A soft growl came next, and as sleep finally claimed him, Josiah Sanchez heard the distinct pad … pad … pad … of huge paws as they walked around the porch and down the steps towards the barn.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When the sun rose the next morning, it revealed a world wreathed in fog and dripping with damp as the sun's rays melted the hard frost that lay over everything. From leaves to grass, from frozen horse-troughs to iron-hard earth, it all eased away and was replaced by a surreal, golden haze that turned the surrounding trees into ghostly figures glimpsed in wispy swirls of fog.

"Truly a 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom-friend of the maturing sun'," Ezra quipped as he tried to avoid looking at the weathervane perched on the barn roof, the huge dog gleaming in the burgeoning sunshine. The droplets of water dripping from its gaping mouth made Ezra shudder. The thing looked as though it was drooling.

Josiah stood next to his friend on the porch and grinned. If Standish was quoting Keats then he was almost back to his old self. _Almost_.

"Did somebody mention bosoms?" Buck said, emerging from the house and pulling on his gloves.

Ezra cringed slightly.

"And there speaks a man whose favourite poetical utterances are bawdy limericks. Doesn't your mind ever stray above the belt?"

Buck grinned.

"Jealousy is a terrible thing, Ezra – I can't help it if I have a certain … attraction." He rubbed his hands together to get rid of the chill and looked at Standish's tired face. The man looked worn out. Buck rested a big hand on Ezra's shoulder and was surprised when the undercover agent didn't shrink away from the touch. Ezra was not a man for all that touchy-feely stuff. "You okay, Ez? You got a bit of a scare last night, huh?"

Standish looked up into earnest cobalt eyes, and the pithy retort died on the tip of his tongue. Wilmington was not teasing him – it was honest concern for a friend. He nodded slightly.

"A bit of an understatement, Buck. But I'm all right now, I can assure you, thank you."

Wilmington's handsome face crinkled into a happy smile, pleased that his friend was none the worse for his experience.

They were interrupted by Vin, who appeared around the side of the barn and waved at them to join him. As they walked up to him he jerked his head.

"C'mere. See what I found."

Tanner led them around the side of the barn and into the shelter of a small stand of fir trees. Hunkering down on his haunches, he gestured at the ground.

"That ain't no bear."

Barely visible in a small patch of semi-frozen mud, was a paw print. It was huge. Buck whistled.

"Jesus! It's sure big enough to be a bear! You sure about that, Vin?"

Tanner nodded, and traced the outline with long fingers.

"Bear's got five toes, long claws … this is a front paw … bears tread mostly on the front part of their forepaws, you rarely see the whole print unless it's very clear. This is more like a dog. See? Kinda compact, four toes, short claws. This is _definitely_ not a bear." He looked up at Ezra, who had become extremely pale. "Whatever the hell you saw Ez, it sure wasn't a bear. But if this is a dog, it's the biggest goddamn dog I ever seen."

Buck and Vin looked at Ezra expectantly, but Josiah rested a hand on Vin's shoulder.

"Well Vin, it's gone now. So let it lie for now, huh? If it comes back then we'll likely get a better look at it, okay?"

Vin caught the guarded look in the profiler's blue gaze and nodded. He would speak to Josiah later about this though – there was more going on here than met the eye, that was for sure.

As they walked back to the house Josiah noticed that Ezra was trembling, but said nothing. But he knew this couldn't go on – whatever was going on here was more than the renowned Team Seven could handle, he was sure. Guns, villains and shootouts were easy compared to this. They needed help of a particular kind, and Josiah Sanchez decided that now was the time to call on someone he hadn't seen in seven years.

When he got back to the house he dug out his cell phone and retired to his bedroom. Once on his own, he punched in a number and sat down to wait. After several rings, a voice answered. Josiah lowered his voice so he would not be overheard.

"Hello, could I speak to Director Manning, please? This is Agent Josiah Sanchez of Denver ATF – I'm an old friend." He waited a few moments until he was put through. "Tom? Josiah Sanchez. Oh, I'm fine, just fine … yeah, Denver's pretty nice. Listen Tom, I need a favour – yeah, yeah, I know – but you owe me, buddy. We need help here. Listen – I think we have a problem you can help us with …"

When the telephone call ended with Tom Manning promising some help within the week, Josiah sat back on his bed and thought for a while. All the seven had to do was sit tight and wait. He sighed. A week, maybe less, and then hopefully things could get back to normal.

Standing up, he was on the point of heading back into the kitchen for a coffee and some breakfast, when he noticed something. A black nose and a pair of paws peeped out from below Ezra's camp bed.

"Diablo? That you boy? C'mon out of there you crazy ol' hound." Josiah peered under the camp bed, his hand straying to scratch the old dog's head. But no amount of persuasion would tempt the Labrador out of his hiding place, and after a few minutes Josiah gave up.

"Well, boy, I hope that help Tom promised us turns up soon before your bladder gives out. You're gonna have to come out of there sometime, feller."

Giving Diablo a parting rub of the ears, Josiah headed off to get his coffee.

* * *

The rest of the seven were surprised when Ezra didn't declare his intention of heading off back to his apartment as soon as breakfast was over, as was his wont. For the rest of the day he stayed at the ranch, relaxing with his friends and even enjoying an ice hockey game on TV as darkness fell. But not once did he step outside.

Finally, as the seven men sat down to a chili supper, Vin's curiosity got the better of him. He waited until they had cleared away plates and cutlery, then relaxed back in his chair.

"Okay, Ez – are you gonna tell us exactly what the hell it was you saw out there last night, or do I have to sit on you and play my harmonica real loud?"

Standish froze in the act of taking a sip of coffee. Blinking rapidly for a second or two, he glanced over at Josiah, who nodded.

"Tell 'em, son. They'll believe you – I sure do."

Ezra looked at the expectant faces of his team-mates and swallowed his mouthful of coffee. Should he tell them? Should he bare his soul and tell them something that he hadn't a hope in hell's chance of living down? Josiah thought they would believe him, but Ezra wasn't so sure. They had always been a little chary of him, even after several years, he knew. Or was he just jumping to conclusions? Perhaps … perhaps _he_ was the one who was chary of _them_ – of their friendship … of their worry and affection for him. When he had walked back to the ranch house the previous night with the terror running through him, hadn't he known in his heart that they would protect him … back him up without question? Perhaps it was time - time to trust implicitly, and without conditions.

Putting his coffee cup down on the table, he took a deep breath. And then he told them. He told them everything – from the feeling of revulsion that had struck him when he first saw the weathervane to the terror of seeing the huge, black … _whatever-it-was_ … on the barn roof, its round, saucer-like eyes glowing a cold silver-green in the moonlight. Even just speaking about it made him tremble.

When he finished, he stood up as though to leave, sure he would be derided, or at the very least, made fun of.

"Where are you going, Ez? Sit down. We have to talk this thing through, okay?" Chris looked up at the undercover agent, and Ezra was stunned to see the concern in Larabee's green-gold gaze.

Ezra looked around the table at his team-mates … his _friends_ … and sat down. All he saw were faces set with worry. He realised, with a lurch, that they were worried about _him_.

"You believe me?" He mumbled in shock.

Vin sat back in his seat.

"Told ya, Ez – that weren't no bear print. Maybe if I'd not seen that I would've thought it was too much cheese before bedtime playin' tricks on ya, but not now. Looks like we got a problem, fellas."

"You … you mean it's a ghost?" JD was wide-eyed with shock.

"I don't think so," said Josiah with a slight smile. "Ghosts don't tend to leave footprints. But it's sure as hell something 'not of this world'. But I have to say, that so far it doesn't seem to be intent on hurting anyone. Ez, it just watched you, right?"

Ezra nodded, still astounded that his _compadres_, hard-as-nails ATF agents, were taking this seriously. Ordinarily Ezra himself would have dismissed such a story as bunkum. Until now. Now he believed, was one hundred percent certain, that there were indeed things out there in the big wide world that could not be reasonably explained.

"What if we just destroyed the weathervane?" added Nathan, still dubious about the whole 'supernatural' thing, but willing to try anything that would solve the problem, whatever it was.

Josiah shook his head.

"Not a good idea. I took the opportunity to get some advice, and I was told we should leave the thing alone until it can be studied. I've spoken to a friend of mine – a fella called Tom Manning. He's the Director of an organisation called the B.P.R.D. – Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defence," he added with a quirky grin as he saw the blank faces around him.

"Never heard of 'em," said Buck.

"I have," Chris interjected. "Well, rumours, anyway. Some weird governmental department set up after the war to look into how the Nazis tried to use supernatural means to further their cause. Now they seem to look into weird and wonderful things around the world – even been to Russia and Africa, I hear." He looked over at Josiah. "Are you gonna tell me you've worked with these guys?"

Josiah grinned.

"Yep. Once, about seven years back. When I was with the KCPD. Something to do with down-and-outs being flayed alive in the local parks. Something was sucking the skin off 'em. Not pretty." He added, grimacing at the memory. "Anyway, the B.P.R.D was called in, and ... well, they found out what was causing the deaths."

JD's eyes were almost out on stalks by this point.

"What was it?" he whispered.

Josiah fixed azure eyes on the young agent.

"Heard of the Aztec god Xipe Totec? No? Well, he was the god of Spring, one of the four powerful creator gods of the Aztecs. His priests are usually depicted as wearing the flayed skins of their living victims … you get my drift?" He saw JD blench. "Some college kids thought it was fun to make sacrifices to him … and it got messy. Very messy indeed. Xipe Totec decided to make his presence known, although the police department didn't know it then. So they called in the B.P.R.D., and I met up with Tom – I'd met him a few times at seminars. It was one weird week, I can tell you, even for an old anthropologist like me who's seen a few weird things in his time."

Josiah fell silent and his friends absorbed the information as best as they could. The idea that there was something 'supernatural' about was difficult to accept, but they knew in their hearts that this was the case.

"So," Chris said, breaking the silence finally. "What now? What do we do until this 'help' arrives?"

"Sit tight, and wait. Somehow I don't think this thing is out to 'get' Ezra – it could have done that easily last night. But I told Tom the details, and he says the agent they're sending will be more than able to deal with it – and if it's the agent I'm thinking of, it's gonna be interesting, to say the least," he added with a grin.

"Don't you think we're going a little overboard here?" Nathan leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "I mean, only Ezra's seen this thing, and – no insult intended, Ez, I believe you – but we're ATF agents. That's only circumstantial evidence at best, even with the pawprint. Couldn't we go the ol' 'exorcism' route or something?"

Josiah shook his head.

"Nate, believe me – this thing is more in the B.P.R.D.'s line than a priest's. I have a feeling this beastie is a lot older than any established religion. It could be anything, but I reckon – seeing as the weathervane came from England – that it's either Celtic or Norse. Either way, there's no guarantee it's going to respond to the 'bell, book and candle' approach. We'll know more when the B.P.R.D. agent arrives, okay? Oh, and Ez isn't the only one to have seen it."

That brought a start of surprise from his friends.

"Who? Have you seen it, Josiah?" Buck's cobalt eyes sparked with shock.

"Nope. Heard it though … last night, just as I was dropping off to sleep. Snuffling and padding around the house. Thought I was dreaming until I saw that paw print." Josiah looked at Chris. "Have you seen Diablo?"

Larabee thought for a few seconds, and then shook his head.

"Now you mention it, no."

Josiah nodded.

"He's under Ezra's bed. And the reason he won't step outside is because he knows what's out there, just as the horses did last night. You thought the old fella was gettin' rheumaticky, when all that's bothering him is pure fear. But you knew that already, didn't you Ez?"

Standish ducked his head, unwilling to let his friends see the unhappiness in his face.

"Indeed, Josiah, I did. Poor old fellow's been keeping me company a lot lately – neither one of us has much intention of stepping out of the house after dark. Or during daylight, now you mention it!" He smiled despite himself.

"So, what do we do?" Vin queried. "I mean, it don't make sense for Ez to hang around here for a week – can he go home? I mean, this thing ain't gonna follow him, is it?"

Josiah shrugged.

"I have no idea. Ezra, I think you ought to stay with me for the week. I'd stay with you but you don't even have the linen for your spare bed unpacked yet – but there's no rush - it's only been a couple of years," he added, a slight trace of sarcasm in his deep baritone.

Ezra let his smile dimple into a wry grin.

"I'm not even going to argue with you Mister Sanchez, not on this point. I have absolutely no intention of staying here, but I must admit to feeling a little apprehensive about being alone. Your offer of accommodation for the week is most gratifying, I can assure you."

Within minutes it was decided that Ezra would stay with Josiah, and Vin would stay with Chris at the ranch just to help him keep an eye on things. The final decision was that Diablo would be allowed to go and stay with Ezra and Josiah at the latter's old town house – Chris couldn't bear the idea of the old dog being terrified any longer than necessary.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. All of the seven were somewhat subdued, and every little squeak of a floorboard or flutter of a dead leaf on the window pane made them jump out of their skins. Just before midnight Chris, Buck and Vin checked the horses, all three of them uncharacteristically nervous. But all they found were horses dozing quietly in their stalls and a couple of mice scurrying out of the sudden glare of the flashlight.

At midnight they all retired to their beds. In the morning Ezra would call in at his apartment with Josiah, pick up a change of clothing and then head into work. Until this mysterious B.P.R.D. agent arrived, Ezra would not be alone other than during a trip to the bathroom.

The others retired to their rooms, and left Vin to bunk down in front of the fire, as he always did. Just before he slipped into the warmth of his bedroll, Vin wandered over to the window to draw the curtains. Peering outside into the once-more starkly bright moonshine, he gazed at the barn. There, on the roof, stood the weathervane, silhouetted against the huge, autumn moon, the enormous metal dog stretched out along his iron bar. The huge holes that denoted his eyes glimmered with the brilliance of moonlight, lending the thing an almost unearthly glow. The very slightest of breezes suddenly whispered in the cold night, and the weathervane turned a fraction on its axis. Vin shuddered. _The dog was looking at him_. His mind kept telling him it was nothing but an old piece of metal cut into the shape of a huge hound, but in his heart ... he felt his skin chill in the most irrational fear he had ever known, and Vin Tanner was not a man who frightened easily. Shivering, he hurriedly drew the curtains and slid into his bedroll. But as he lay there in the dark, watching the glow of the fire, his mind couldn't let go of the image of a huge, black hound, enormous eyes watching him with something that could not be anything else but pure evil.

* * *

Ezra awoke blearily in the cold, wee hours of the morning, As he lay flat on his back under the blankets, he listened intently. At first he could hear nothing ... and then came the faint sound of scratching below the windowsill at the side of the bed. Something was outside. It was just on the other side of a fairly thin wooden wall.

"Can you hear it?" Josiah's whispered words almost made Ezra jump out of his skin.

The undercover agent swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry with fear, and his reply was nothing more than a croak.

"It ... it's outside the window."

Ezra glanced over at the sofa bed. Josiah was also lying on his back, and Ezra could just make out the gleam of his eyes in the dark. The room was bitterly cold.

The sounds changed from a scratching to a low grumbling growl, softening to a groaning snuffle as the unknown thing outside searched around the edges of the window.

"It's trying to get in," Ezra whispered. "Dear God ... it's trying to get in here."

The sound turned to the frenzied scrabbling of claws against the glass, and Ezra felt his bones turn to water. But he couldn't move. _He couldn't move at all_.

"Josiah!" Ezra gasped out the name.

"It can't get in, Ez, I'm sure of it." But as Josiah eased out of the bed and slid his gun from the holster hanging on the back of the chair beside the bed, the scrabbling stopped. Then came an almost human whine of frustration, and the ominous thud of heavy paws dropping onto the porch floor. Josiah gave a relieved, toothy grin, shining white in the darkness. "It can't cross the threshold."

The creature turned away from the window, and Ezra heard the soft, ponderous pad … pad … of huge feet as it moved around the house to the front door. It was gone.

Ezra lay still tucked under his blankets, his body rigid with tension, but Josiah's reassuring presence began to allow him to relax.

"You okay, Ezra?" Josiah's soft, comforting baritone echoed in the room, and Ezra noticed the temperature has risen – Josiah's breath didn't plume frostily in the air anymore. He nodded, his movements still jerky with fear.

"Better now. Has it gone, do you think?"

Josiah patted Ezra's blanketed shoulder once more in reassurance and slipped his gun back in its holster. As he sat on his bed and ran long fingers through his short curls, he allowed the tension in his muscles to ease before he went back to his bed. At least the creature could not enter the house –

_Bang! BANGBANGBANG!_

The whole fabric of the house shook as something heavy battered against the front door, heaving, groaning chewed growls roared through the still night, the tearing of claws on wood sounded so loud Josiah thought the door was being wrenched off its hinges.

Then came a flurry of unmistakeably Texan curses, and shots rang out loud through the night, three of them in quick succession, ripping into planking and something solid beyond.

Josiah leapt to his feet, gun once more out of its holster, Ezra fumbling his way out of his blankets and reaching for his own weapon. He heard voices from the room next door and knew Buck and JD had been shaken by the furore. Larabee couldn't be far behind.

But then there was nothing but silence for what was only at most a second or two, but which to the two agents seemed to be a lifetime.

And then came a sound that Josiah swore he would never be able to forget in a lifetime.

The howl of a great hound soared into the night sky, ringing high to the winking stars above. It was a sound of such loneliness, such heartbreak, that Josiah's heart sang with a sorrow he did not believe could have existed in this world. His mind was swept with images of distant mountains and frozen peaks … but there was something more. A savage need filled him, a need to hunt, to kill … a need to follow his prey until the world's end and beyond, until the endless realms of mankind fell and were lost forever.

As the howl died away and the presence of the thing outside faded and disappeared, Josiah blinked. Another sound came. It was another howl, but now it was one of mourning, of great sadness. But it was an earthly sound, the howl of a real animal.

Diablo.

Diablo was howling, his voice rich with the song of his long-dead ancestors, echoing the pain of the creature that haunted them. It came from the hallway … from where the shots had been fired.

"_Oh no! VIN!_"

Josiah hefted his gun and headed at a run towards the hallway, his heart clenching in fear at what horrors he might find.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Josiah and Ezra barrelled into the hall, closely followed by the four other agents, all with guns drawn and all six of them terrified of what they might find.

But what they found was completely unexpected – a Vin Tanner sitting flat on his ass on the floor, knees drawn up so that he could brace his elbows on them. His gun, held steady and still smoking, was pointed at the front door of the house. Vin was as white as a sheet, but – much to his team-mates' profound relief – didn't seem to have a mark on him.

Chris dropped down beside him and touched Tanner's shoulder.

"Vin! Vin, are you okay? What the hell happened?"

There was no reply. The sharpshooter just kept gazing at the door, his fingers clenched so tightly around the butt of his gun the knuckles showed white through taut skin. Chris looked up at the men crowding around them and Josiah flinched at the fear in the blond's green-gold eyes. The big profiler knelt down beside Vin and gently but firmly removed the automatic from Tanner's grasp.

"C'mon, Vin ... speak to us, son. Are you all right? Vin?"

Sky-blue eyes wide with fear and not a little astonishment turned to meet Josiah's gaze.

"J'siah?"

"Yeah, son – it's me. Chris is here too." Josiah saw Vin turn his eyes slowly as if to check out Larabee's presence, and the sudden relaxation of rigid muscles in the young agent's spare frame signalled Tanner's realisation that he was safe at last. His brothers were here, and they would back him up whatever happened.

"It was tryin' to get in, Chris. It ... it … well … it frightened the unholy crap out of me!"

It was as if a barrier had been broken, and all of them heaved hefty sighs of relief, and Buck started to chuckle, more out of tension than humour.

"Shit, Junior, _you_ were frightened? I thought the goddamn house was gonna fall down, and then I was pretty sure we were gonna find you all tore up and bits of your guts hangin' from the ceiling!"

Vin Tanner proffered a shaky smile, and with Josiah and Chris' help, heaved himself to his feet.

Chris looked at his front door. It had three bullet holes in it, but seemed undamaged otherwise. He cocked an eyebrow at Josiah.

"You think it's gone?"

Josiah shrugged.

"No idea. You guys seem to think I know about these things, but I'm as much in the dark as you are."

The seven looked at each other. Ezra and Vin seemed to be regaining the colour in their faces, and everyone appeared to be all right, apart from Diablo, who had run hell-for-leather into the guest room and was now once more ensconced under Ezra's bed.

"S'pose we'd better go check outside, huh?" Nathan said, hoping with all his heart that his friends would heartily disagree. His handsome face creased into a frown when Larabee nodded.

"Guess so." Chris didn't sound very enthusiastic, but he could see his team were expecting some measure of leadership from him, even under these trying circumstances. Never in his life had Chris Larabee felt so out of his depth. How do you fight a phantom? A thing that patently did not belong in this world, and which came and went with ease, frightening the hell out of his team as it went. And what did it want? Why did it seem to be after Ezra?

He sighed.

"Vin, Ez, you stay here and chill out." For once Vin didn't argue. Satisfied, Chris continued. "Nate, Buck, Josiah, you're with me. I reckon this bastard's gone for now, but I want to see if the horses are okay. JD … make some coffee, will you? _Strong_ coffee."

Within minutes Chris and his _compadres_ were dressed and ready for their foray into the night. Chris dug out flashlights and handed them out.

He was on the point of unbolting the front door when he heard … _something_.

"Shhh! Listen!" He raised a finger to his lips. Team Seven froze in their tracks, eyes wide. What the hell was coming now?

At first the sound was faint. A soft but solid tread, measured and heavy. But it was different from a normal footfall, that was for sure. Whatever was walking up to the house was big – _very_ big – and it was the stride of a man. _Or something like a man_, Chris thought.

The heavy footsteps came closer … closer … then they heard the sound change to hollow clunks as the unknown thing stepped up onto the wooden porch and made its way to the bullet-holed front door. Then … silence.

_BOOM!_

_BOOM!_

_BOOM!_

Seven guns were out of holsters in less than a second, all of them trained on the door as whatever was on the other side of it battered the much-maligned wood.

"B.P.R.D! You fellas okay?" The voice was a deep, gruff baritone.

Seven men almost collapsed with relief.

"JD? Get the door son, will you, while I try to get my heart kick-started here!" Josiah said, his hand shaking as he slipped his gun back into its holster.

JD Dunne looked at his friends. All of them seemed on the point of collapse, and he had to admit he didn't feel much better himself. But if Josiah thought the voice belonged to someone friendly, then that was okay with him. Stepping forward and unbolting the door, he swung it open and got his first glimpse of their visitor.

His yelp of terror made his team-mates jump and they watched, mesmerised, as JD stumbled backwards and landed flat on his butt on the floor. Raising their eyes from the floundering Dunne, they took in the figure that filled the doorway.

At that moment Chris Larabee was sure he had died and gone to hell.

"Holy crap in the foothills!" he whispered.

The demon – for it surely wasn't a man – could not be less than seven feet tall. Red skin glowed dully in the moonlight, and Chris thought he could make out the shaven stumps of horns on the thing's forehead. The body was massive – bulging muscles rippled under the red skin and there were strange markings on the broad chest, symbols the meaning of which Larabee could only guess at. It wore a heavy leather duster coat, pants and boots, and around its waist was a belt carrying the biggest goddamn gun Chris had ever seen in his life. The belt was adorned with mysterious pouches and pockets, and dangling from it were several strange-shaped things that could be talismans, he wasn't sure. Beside them hung a plain, wooden cross. Chris' blood chilled in his veins when he saw a glimpse of a long, prehensile tail bobbing behind the creature. Its left hand was normal, but the right hand and forearm … they were stone. Or something that closely resembled stone. At least three times the size of its mate, the three flat, column-like fingers and thumb were still clenched into a fist, and Chris could see the same marks on the chiselled roundels of the limb as were on the muscled torso.

But its face … _dear god_, Chris thought, _the last time I saw a face like that was in a Bosch painting of Hell._ Grim-featured and adorned with whiskers and black hair pulled into the nape of its neck in a knot, it was the very personification of the medieval vision of Satan. Deep-set amber-gold eyes studied the seven with curiosity.

"Hey, guys," the thing said amiably, "you haven't seen a great big hairy mutt with google-eyes hangin' around here, have you?" The creature blinked at the seven, then went back to studying the terrified JD Dunne. "Jeez, sorry kid – didn't mean to scare you." He glanced at Chris. "Happens all the time." He looked at the seven, then pulled out a cigar from his duster pocket and stuck it between big white teeth. "Anybody got a light?"

Josiah Sanchez burst out laughing.

"Fellas - meet Hellboy."

* * *

"So, Mister … ah … _Boy_, do you know what this thing is that's been frightening the wits out of us?"

"It's Hellboy, and yep, I know what it is."

Team Seven and one very large and extremely hungry B.P.R.D. agent were sitting in the kitchen of Chris' ranch house eating a hearty – and in Hellboy's case, substantial – breakfast. He had demolished a pound of smoked bacon and a dozen eggs, almost a whole skillet of fried potatoes, half a dozen biscuits and a pot of coffee. Nathan couldn't even begin to wonder what Hellboy's cholesterol count was – if he _had_ cholesterol, that is.

Vin ate his last mouthful of sausage and watched as Hellboy neatly used his fork to wipe a piece of toast around the egg-yolk dregs on his plate. The huge stone hand rested on the table and the sharpshooter studied it furtively. It couldn't possibly be living tissue, yet it was obviously a part of the big agent, and he looked up to see Hellboy watching him with amusement.

"Nope, it isn't a glove, if that's what you're thinking. It's attached." Hellboy turned his hand over on the table and flexed the fingers and thumb. Vin marvelled at the latent power in the limb, shaking his head in wonder. It was like living rock.

He was on the point of reaching out and touching it, when Ezra interrupted.

"Could we leave this anthropological discussion for now, Mister Tanner, and let our _guest_ tell us just _what the hell is going on here_?" The undercover agent's voice was reamed with tiredness – it had been a long night, and none of them had garnered much sleep.

Hellboy drank yet another cup of Vin's gut-burning coffee and gave the young agent a quirky grin.

"Good coffee. Just how I like it." He turned to Ezra. "It's a barguest."

Ezra blinked.

"A … a _what_?"

Hellboy reached over to his duster coat which hung on the back of the chair next to him. Delving into one of its capacious pockets he dragged out a tattered bit of paper. Studying the scrawled writing on it he frowned.

"Just a minute … yeah. That's what it says here – you got yourselves a barguest. A demon hound. A 'Shuck' dog. 'Black Shuck' as it's called in Norfolk, England." He read a little longer, muttering the words to himself, then nodded. "Yeah – here it is. 'There is a popular belief that no one can set eyes on the Shuck Dog and live. It is said that that when someone was dying, people used to say that the black dog was at his heels'." He cocked a dark eyebrow at Ezra. "You look pretty lively to me. I take it you're not plannin' on dying anytime soon, huh?"

Ezra bristled a little.

"So," Josiah said as he swallowed a piece of toast, "How come it's decided to go after Ez? What does it want? Or is it just a sign of … well … death." he finished lamely.

Ezra began to glower, but Hellboy grimaced.

"No idea. You say it's to do with the weathervane. Fairfield Hall, it came from?" He saw Ezra nod. "It's the Fairfield Shuck Dog. Legend has it that Garanhir, leader of the _Herlathing_ – the Wild Hunt - sent one of his hounds to collect the soul of Sir Rodney Talbot of Fairfield 'way back in the 13th century. Not a nice guy. Anyway, he'd been drinking one night and dared the Hunt to take him … so they did. But a monk trapped the hound with words of the Old Way and turned it into a weathervane. Apparently the hound's been trying to get free ever since, so it can return to its master. At least, that's what I was told back at headquarters. I'm not much on research, I gotta say. I just whomp the bad guys."

Buck helped himself to more eggs_. It's strange_, he thought, _how fear gives you an appetite_.

"So, could it be that when Maude sent Ez the weathervane, this … this … 'Shuck dog' fixated on him?"

Hellboy looked at Standish.

"Maude?"

Ezra scowled.

"Mother."

"Okay." Hellboy nodded. "Sounds as though that could be it. I'll speak to headquarters today and see what they can come up with. Tom decided you guys needed a hand, and I was gettin' cabin fever anyway so I thought I'd get here early. Good job I did, huh? Oh, by the way Josiah – Kate sends her love."

Six sets of eyebrows hit hairlines.

"Kate?" smiled Buck. "And who, may I ask, is Kate?"

Josiah grinned toothily.

"Professor Kate Corrigan. Tall, blonde, Assistant Director of Field Ops at the B.P.R.D. Beautiful, incredibly intelligent and as stubborn as hell. My kinda lady." He winked at Buck. "And she can read ancient Mayan to boot."

Hellboy finished eating and stood up carefully – Chris' chairs were not really up to coping with four hundred pounds of B.P.R.D. agent.

"I'll have a look around today, if that's okay. You guys go do what you gotta to do – I'll be fine here. I got Diablo to keep me company anyway."

Hellboy looked down at the dog sitting happily beside him, tail wagging. Since Hellboy's arrival Diablo had been a different dog – relaxed and back to his usual self. And for some unknown reason, he had taken quite a shine to the big red agent.

Hellboy patted Diablo on the head and gently pulled his ears.

"Had a dog when I was a kid. Labrador called Mac." He smiled softly, the humour smoothing the grim, angular lines of his demonic face. "We were pals." Reaching onto the table he found a scrap of toast and slipped it to Diablo, who ate it as though he hadn't been fed in a month of Sundays.

Nathan groaned.

"First you guys and now … erm …" the EMT struggled for a moment, still unnerved by the presence of a red creature with a tail and a stone hand, who liked dogs and smoked good Cuban cigars.

"Hellboy. Just Hellboy. Or you can call me HB. My friends call me HB." Hellboy gave them his rare, warm smile that made his amber eyes glow with humour.

Nathan nodded hesitantly.

"Um … HB. Diablo's stomach can be a little sensitive sometimes, I'll warn you now."

Diablo wagged his tail harder at the mention of his name as Hellboy gave the Labrador's dark head a final pat.

"Uh-huh. You get stinky, do you? Well, that's okay. Mac could've emptied Yankee Stadium if you gave him Baby Ruths." Hellboy reached into another pocket of his duster coat and brought out a Twinky. Unwrapping it and breaking it in half, he gave one half to Diablo – who obviously thought Christmas had come a month early – and munched the other half himself with great relish. It was plain that Hellboy had a very sweet tooth.

Team Seven watched this strange being who had dropped into their lives so unexpectedly – a being whose appearance was outlandish, but was so paradoxically human.

Hellboy straightened, towering over the ATF agents, although several of them were big men.

"Okay," he said, buckling on his belt. The huge gun sat butt-forward in its holster and the talismans clinked softly. Shrugging on his duster coat he scratched the stubble on his head, frowning. "Got a hound to find. Weathervane. Barn, right?"

Chris nodded.

"Josiah, I'd like you to take a personal day. Keep Hellboy company, will you?"

Sanchez's head snapped up.

"Chris, I - "

Larabee's eyebrows drew down.

"Josiah, don't argue. You've worked with the B.P.R.D. before, and dealt with shit we can't even begin to understand. Besides …" He added, his lean face softening. "You've had a lot on your plate recently. Take some time out and tell Hellboy what you can. We'll all be back tonight. Ez, I think you ought to stay too."

"Me?" Ezra almost squeaked. "Stay? Here?"

"Yeah," Chris grinned, "Here. I've already cleared it with Travis."

Ezra looked at his team-mates, and began to fizz as he saw the barely-concealed quirks of laughter on the six faces.

"_Mister_ Larabee, if you think I have _any_ intentions of staying _one minute longer_ in this god-forsaken hole then you can just think again! I - "

Chris grinned and tipped a two-fingered salute at the irate undercover agent.

"See you later, guys. Have a nice day."

And he turned and walked out of the house, followed by a chuckling bunch of ATF agents, leaving Ezra in the company of a cheerful Josiah Sanchez and a somewhat bemused BPRD agent.

Hellboy watched out of the window as the vehicles containing five of the members of Team Seven trundled out of the yard, then turned around to gaze at a red-faced and spluttering Standish.

"Right, friend – let's go do some paranormal investigating stuff. Tell me exactly what you saw, and after that we'll go have a look at the weathervane, huh?"

Ezra looked at Hellboy, then at Josiah.

"Insane," he said, almost conversationally. "The world really has gone completely and utterly insane. Potty. Mad as the proverbial Hatter. Nuts. Crazy as a bed bug."

Josiah grinned and patted Ezra on the shoulder.

"Well, Ez, I think you've finally figured it out."

Standish blinked.

"Erm … figured out what, exactly, Josiah?"

Josiah's grin widened.

"Life, Ez … _life_!"

* * *

The day was spent studying the damage done to the door, the tracks Vin found around the barn, and the weathervane itself. Hellboy looked at it from ground level, as he wasn't too sure that Chris' barn roof was strong enough to support his 400-pound bulk. After perusing all of the evidence he returned to the house and spent some time on the 'phone with Tom Manning at B.P.R.D. Headquarters.

By the time the rest of Team Seven returned in the evening, Hellboy, Josiah and Ezra were sitting at the kitchen table drinking soda. Diablo lay draped over Hellboy's boots, snoring happily. The huge red agent didn't seem to mind. Indeed, he was busy telling Josiah and a somewhat disbelieving Standish about the time he had parachuted out of an aeroplane over the Libyan Desert and his parachute had failed to open.

" … finally, I managed to open the reserve 'chute – I was about a hundred feet up, y'know?" He took another swig of the soda.

"So? What happened? I take it the fall didn't kill you!" Josiah grinned.

"Broke my fall on a camel." Hellboy cringed as he remembered the camel's shriek.

Ezra winced.

"What happened to the camel? Oh … don't tell me – dead as a doornail, right?"

Hellboy nodded.

"Yep. Squashed flat as a pamcake (1)." He shrugged. "The Bedouin weren't too happy about it, I can tell you. Said I was a sand demon." He swallowed more soda then wiped his left hand over his mouth. "Hell, I told 'em I was sorry. Hey, guys!" He added, as Chris and the rest of the team piled into the kitchen, taking off heavy coats and unlacing boots. It was a cold night.

Pouring himself a coffee, Chris cocked an eyebrow at Hellboy.

"Well? Come up with anything?"

Everyone fixed their gaze on the B.P.R.D. agent, who scratched the stubble on his head.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Monday. So what?" Buck asked as he rubbed his hands together to get some warmth into chilled fingers.

"No – I mean, what _date_ is it?" Hellboy replied, unable to stop a hint of sarcasm from creeping into his voice.

"October 31st" JD said promptly, and then his eyes sparked. "Hey! It's Halloween!"

"Give the kid a lollipop!" Hellboy grinned. "Yeah – Halloween. All Hallow's Eve. The ancient festival of Samhain."

There were blank looks from six of the seven. The silence that followed was broken by Josiah's soft baritone.

"Samhain. The night when the barriers between the natural and the supernatural thin and fall away … it is a night when the spirits of the dead can walk the earth, among the living."

"Josiah – sometimes I wonder just how in hell you _know_ all this crap!" Buck shook his head in wonder, like a bear awaking from its winter's sleep.

Josiah grinned ruefully.

"I worked one summer on an archaeological dig at Hadrian's Wall, in the north of England." His eyes sparked at the memory. "I'd just come back from 'Nam … trying to get things straight in my head, I guess." His grin faded. "We found all kinds of stuff … Roman coins, Celtic stone heads, skulls – no bodies … just skulls. There was a place that had been a marsh, and we excavated the peat bog there. Found lots of weapons, jewellery, bits of cloth … and a head." He shivered. "The Celts had a thing about heads. This one was wrapped in a cloak and pinned with a brooch. It was a man's head, with a long, red plait of hair. His face … the tannin in the bog preserves flesh very well … his face – he looked as though he was asleep. Pretty creepy. I suppose he could have been a prisoner who'd been decapitated and his head offered to the spirits of the marsh - bog bodies are not uncommon, dating back thousands of years. This one was not quite so old though, probably from the time of the Roman occupation. But when we'd done all the archaeological stuff and finally brought it back to the camp …" His blue eyes became hooded. "That night … well, we were sitting outside our tents, and I suppose we'd had a few whiskies to keep out the night air, but …" He looked at his _compadres_ and Hellboy, all of them listening intently. He took a deep breath and continued. "We were just getting ready to hit the sack when … when I saw something. Just out of the corner of my eye, I suppose, just outside the edge of the firelight and hidden in the tree shadows. I thought I was seeing things, but … but when I looked harder … it was a man. Or at least I think it was a man. But I swear to God, he was like no man I'd ever seen – and I've seen some shit in my time. He must've been near seven feet tall, and I swear …" His voice caught in his throat, but he continued. "I swear he had antlers, like some great, two-legged stag. I stood up – and he was gone, like quicksilver. But I've never forgotten that moment – those antlers, dark against the moonlight."

"Jesus!" Buck's voice was soft with wonder.

"Garanhir. Herne. Cernunnos. The Stalking Person. Mad sonofagun." Said Hellboy, grimacing. "Well, it looks like he'll come to get his damn' dog back tonight. Or at least, that's what the nerdy guys say back at the B.P.R.D. All we gotta do is sit back and let him, they say."

"Pardon me for being somewhat obtuse, but why has it decided to fixate on _me_? And why _now_?" Ezra said testily. "Couldn't this Garanhir character fetch his dratted dog another time? Like, a couple of hundred years ago, instead of frightening the wits out of me?"

Hellboy shrugged.

"Damned if I know."

"Perhaps he's got a thing about Armani suits," drawled Vin, grinning.

"Very funny, Mister Tanner." Ezra scowled.

"So," interrupted Nathan, "All we have to do is wait and see what happens tonight. Right? So, tell me – why shouldn't we just high-tail it out of here? Why stay here like sitting ducks?"

Hellboy turned those deep-set amber eyes on the EMT, and Nathan shivered as he gazed into fathomless, golden depths.

"Because here in this house you're safe. The Hunt can't pass over the threshold. With luck they'll just come pick up the dog and go. I hope that's what they'll do, anyway. You can never be sure. Hey!" Hellboy said, brightening. "It's about supper time, huh? I'm gettin' kinda hungry here."

"HB, I hope to hell this business gets sorted out tonight, because if you stay around here much longer we'll run out of supplies." Josiah grouched.

Hellboy just grinned his lopsided grin and patted his stomach with his stone-like hand.

"Gotta keep my strength up, fellas – I'm a growing boy." He looked around at Team Seven. "Anyone know how to make Paprika Chicken?"

Nathan groaned.

"God help us – if this Wild Hunt doesn't get us, indigestion will!" he said.

* * *

The evening passed pleasantly enough.

The food – Paprika Chicken, salad and French fries followed by Vin's lethally sweet Sticky Toffee Pudding with cream – was excellent, despite Nathan's grumbles about calories and upset stomachs. Vin pointed out, quite correctly, that Nathan wasn't averse to a generous helping of dessert despite himself, but all Jackson would say was that if he was about to get munched by a pack of spectral hounds, he thought it wouldn't do any harm to 'live a little'.

For the next few hours they relaxed, although every little noise and creak set them on edge. But Hellboy turned out to be surprisingly good company. Chris sat back in his comfortable chair smoking a cheroot while the big demon and his team swapped stories, and the ATF team leader smiled to himself. Never in a million years, he thought, would he have guessed that he would be sitting in his living room with a big red demon - complete with horn stumps, a tail and a huge stone hand - sprawled on his old sofa. Josiah had even confided to him quietly that Hellboy had hooves instead of feet secreted in his heavy leather boots.

But once you got past the agent's appearance, Chris decided, Hellboy was in fact just an ordinary Joe – a _man_ who adored old black and white movies, liked a beer or two and enjoyed a good cigar. He loved comics, which instantly endeared him to JD, and Chris could see how shy the huge agent was behind that inscrutable gaze when Buck talked about the beautiful Inez, the lady who served behind the bar at their local watering hole, 'the Saloon'. Hellboy was as gauche as a teenager.

Time slipped by and the evening wore on, and as the hands on Chris' old long-case clock crept towards midnight, the atmosphere in the house became more and more edgy. The slow, inexorable _tick_ … _tick_ … _tick_ … began to grind down even Vin's legendary patience, and the young sharpshooter caught himself more than once gazing at the window that looked out onto the yard and the barn beyond. _He could almost feel that damn' dog's eyes glaring at him through the wall …_

Finally, Hellboy stood up, stretched to his full height and flexed his tail, the tip twitching slightly.

"I'll maybe take a walk, guys – check things out."

Chris caught the glances of his team and levered himself out of his chair.

"Need some company?"

Hellboy shook his head.

"Nope. Anything happens, I can handle it. You guys stay put."

Buck's cobalt gaze looked questioningly at the red agent.

"You sure? We know how to take care of ourselves, HB - "

Hellboy raised a placating right hand.

"I know – I've seen Josiah in action, and if he's anything to go by, you fellas ain't no slouches. But this is my thing, guys, okay? I can't spend my time keeping an eye on you and kickin' butt at the same time, so humour me."

He wandered into the kitchen and lifted his belt and gun, fastening it around his hips. Then he slipped into the huge duster coat and buckled the sleeve over the stone forearm. Rummaging around in the duster coat pocket, he hauled out a cylinder already loaded with the biggest bullets Team Seven had ever seen and checked it. Satisfied, he put it back into the cavernous pocket and squared his enormous shoulders. He was ready.

Within moments he was striding through the hall and out into the frozen clear night.

The silence in the house would have been deafening but for the ticking of Chris' clock in the corner of the room, and the seven men looked at one another. They knew they should not have let Hellboy do this alone – it went against everything they knew, everything they had been taught and experienced in their time as the elite but unconventional Team Seven of Denver's ATF division. But they also knew Hellboy was right. Each of them knew that they had to trust the big agent – if they could not do that, then it could cost Hellboy his life. Trust was everything.

Ezra finally broke the impasse.

"I think a cup of coffee is needed here, gentlemen, don't you think?" His green gaze was questioning.

Team Seven started awake as if synchronised.

"Erm … yeah, Ez, that'd be great," muttered JD. The young agent looked at Chris, but didn't say anything.

Larabee caught the question in the hazel eyes, and nodded.

"Yeah, I know JD – we should be out there too. But Hellboy's right. He knows what he's doing, just like Ez does when he's undercover, or you when you're setting up a wire. If we're needed …"

He left the sentence unfinished, and JD nodded in understanding. If the crunch came, Hellboy would get all the backup he needed.

As they trooped into the kitchen after Ezra, none of them noticed Diablo wander into the hall and sit behind the front door, ears pricked. The old dog cocked his head, as though he could hear something just beyond the scope of any human hearing, and then his ears went flat against his head. Turning, his tail tucked firmly against his rump, he headed into the guest room and slid under Ezra's bed.

At that moment the clock struck twelve.

TBC

* * *

**Author's note:**

(1) Pamcakes. Yep, that's what Hellboy calls 'em, and has done since he was a boy.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Hellboy stood stock still in the middle of the darkened yard, gazing up at the metal dog on the weathervane, and then he turned his amber eyes to the blue-black sky. The night was crystal clear, the sky a mass of stars, shimmering gently as they burned their lives away through the endless eons of time.

Hellboy smiled. He liked nights like this, nights where he could just sit and ponder life, the universe … and his place in it. He didn't know what he was – he was happier not knowing – but he had a destiny, he was sure. It's just he couldn't quite figure out what the hell it was. Perhaps … perhaps it was _safer_ not knowing. He scratched his jaw and went back to studying the weathervane.

The dog was gone.

Hellboy blinked. Damn! The thing was there a moment ago! He turned, duster swirling, left hand sliding the huge gun out of its holster.

"Okay, Rover, come to daddy …" he muttered. But the only answer he got was stillness and unutterable silence. His boots rang on the ice-hard ground and he was on the point of disappearing around the side of the barn when his acute hearing picked up something. It was faint … a mere disturbance in the air at first, a sound so intensely deep he felt it rather than heard it. It echoed dimly in his chest, and for some reason his heart ached. The sound came again – louder this time, clearer, a wild, throbbing call that made him look towards the glimmering heavens.

And then he knew what it was.

It was the call of a great hunting horn.

* * *

In the house Team Seven stood uneasily in the kitchen, coffee cups in hand, all of them standing silently apart from the occasional glance at the window. The thought was in all of their minds … _We should be out there … we should be backing him up …_

But then there was no time to worry about it. As they heard the clock chime midnight they heard a sound that made their bones feel as though they had turned to water.

Howling. A deep, lonely howl that echoed through the cold night. It came from the barn, and as Chris dropped his coffee mug and reached for his gun, the howl was answered by others … a baying melody that filled the night, a sound so unearthly it set hairs rising on the back of the ATF agents' necks.

The call of a huge hunting horn came then, and the seven men rushed through to the living room window to look out, weapons at the ready … and their mouths dropped open.

Hellboy stood in the yard, outlined in stark moonshine, feet braced and gun drawn. His tail was curled behind him out of the way, and his grim, angular features looked almost majestic in the silvered night. He was gazing skyward, and Chris and his team followed his gaze … and their legs almost went out from under them.

At first Chris took the light to be a shower of shooting stars drifting through the heavens – but the substance was all wrong. The light was red, a fell glow, and it changed and coalesced, moving in crimson and silver, a mercurial river of sparks that flowed and shifted in the crystal-chill night.

In that instant, the liquid flow of light took form, and the sky was filled with a roaring of sound. Deep bays echoed to the depths of the blackness above, and the stars dimmed and blotted out as the gigantic forms of great hounds took shape, a pack of hounds that gave tongue to a sound that took Larabee's breath from his chest. But then he heard Josiah's gasp of wonder.

Before the hounds ran antlered majesty.

The figure was tall, broad and massive, with crisp curls of liquid fire running across chest and belly, down to powerful thighs and narrow loins. But the figure's head … long and lean, muzzle tipped skyward as though scenting the wind, a great stag with many-pointed antlers, spread wide and strong against the huge cold moon. And as the figure ran, it lifted a great silver-chased horn and blew, the sound of it making the very earth tremble with its terrible beauty.

But as they watched, mesmerised, they heard another howl. Diablo was now at the bolted front door, paws scrabbling frantically against the scarred wood. And his howl joined that of the Wild Hunt, now bearing down upon the small ranch as though the world's end was at their heels.

* * *

Hellboy watched grimly as the huge hounds, now solid and more earthly in appearance, charged towards him. They were running lightly and with unnatural speed along the small wood-lined road that led to the yard from the main highway a couple of miles hence – and ahead of them, keeping pace easily, ran Garanhir, the leader of the Wild Hunt.

Within seconds the yard was filled with gigantic hounds milling in wild abandon, hounds as big as a small horse, the deep bays resounding in empty corners and deep crannies of the moon-gilded buildings. The great antlered figure slowed and stopped, just yards from Hellboy. The big agent didn't twitch a muscle.

Garanhir loomed above him, even though Hellboy stood nearly seven feet tall.

"I have come, demon." The voice was a deep, _basso_ rumble, and although Hellboy did not know the language, he was slightly discomfited to realise he understood every word the ancient being uttered.

Hellboy gripped the gun firmly in his human left hand and cocked a dark eyebrow.

"Jeez, no kidding." He said sardonically. He studied the being before him, ignoring the hounds now swarming around the yard. Hellboy's amber eyes lingered on Garanhir's cloven hooves and couldn't suppress a slight shiver. _They looked so much like his own …_

Garanhir took a step back and lifted the horn once more to his lips and took a breath, but Hellboy decided he'd had enough for one night.

"Hey! Billy-Goat Gruff! We heard you the first time! Just take your damn' dog and go, okay?"

The huge antlered head hesitated, and then glanced down at the B.P.R.D. agent. His eyes narrowed slightly, and Hellboy realised that Garanhir's eyes were indeed like those of a goat.

"It is The Gathering, demon. Tonight, on this night of nights, my hounds roam the world as one. Tonight after hundreds of your earthly years, we hunt. We search for his soul – the soul of the …" Garanhir almost spat out the word – "the _priest_ who took my hound from me. I seek his get … I seek the last of his line. With the spilling of his blood we _will_ be free!"

But before Hellboy could get a word out or even blast Garanhir and his goddamn' dogs to hell and back, there was another howl, and turning saw a hound lope across the yard from the barn. Like the others, it was dark with enormous saucer-like eyes, but this hound was larger than the others and its coat sparked ruby and silver in the night air. It was the hound from the empty weathervane that now sat bare on the barn roof.

Garanhir threw back his head and laughed, a rich melody of pagan joy that set Hellboy's heart thumping in his chest.

"You think you can stop us, demon? I know the holy man's get is here – I know his blood will release my hound from this earthly prison so we can ride and hunt once more! Where is he? Where is the bastard child of an unchaste priest!"

Now Hellboy was getting a little pissed off. He hated all this babbling and proselytising these creatures seemed to be so fond of.

"Look Bambi, you've got your mutt back, so just take a hike, huh? There's nobody here you want, so go play in somebody else's sandbox!" He gesticulated with his gun to emphasise his point.

Garanhir seemed amused.

"You will fight now, demon? If that is so, you will die – and that is a sadness I would rather not bear as your destiny lies elsewhere. But if you must fight …"

Hellboy sighed.

"Y'know, I get pretty tired of things like you telling me what to do, goat boy – look," he added in a slightly more reconciliatory tone, "I'm tryin' to give you a break here. Nobody's gonna donate any blood, so just back off, will ya?" His jawline was set now, stubborn and uncompromising. The huge stone fist curled into itself in readiness.

The antlered figure flexed huge shoulders and the lean head raised as though to scent the still, cold air.

"I smell him, demon … I can sense his fear … the soul that I seek is near …"

And before Hellboy could react a huge, supernaturally long-fingered hand smashed him in the chest.

The blow sent him sailing through the air to crash heavily through the barn door, splintering wood and tearing the massive hinges from the frame as though they were paper. Hellboy smashed untidily into a support post, shattering the ten-inch-thick pillar of sturdy pine and landing in an ungainly heap in an empty stall. Ignoring the now terrified horses he rolled onto his belly with a groan and levered himself to his feet. Dammit! He'd lost his gun! Groping around in the shattered remains of the post and barn doors, he swore softly to himself. The thing was nowhere to be found. Straightening, feeling his joints creak with the effort, Hellboy flexed his tail in extreme annoyance and had to wince at the devastation around him. Larabee would be throwing a blue fit, he guessed. _Oh well_, he thought. _Couldn't be helped now ..._

Bracing his shoulders squarely, he stalked unconcernedly back outside into the unforgiving moonlight.

Garanhir ignored the big red agent as he appeared out of the barn, tail twitching in annoyance, and continued his study of the house. He could sense the beings ... the _humans_ ... inside, and he scented the air once more. The scent of one of the humans seemed familiar. Yes ... that was the one ... but how to get into the house? The Old Magic forbade him to enter. Garanhir smiled ferally. Coupled with the smell of fear was also the heady, sharp scent of anger – _great_ anger, and concern. But ... concern for what? Or _whom_ ... He turned his antlered head, goat-like eyes mirroring the limpid moonshine until they glowed like ice-cold opals.

Hellboy saw the satisfaction in the being's gaze and frowned. Now what the hell was the beast up to?

"Right!" He growled, irritated. "That's it! I'm a patient kinda guy, but now you made me drop my gun! I _hate_ when that happens!" And raising his stone fist he strode towards Garanhir.

The huge, antlered brow nodded once, and Garanhir stretched out a hand, pointing a clawed finger at Hellboy. He spoke to his milling hounds softly, with a voice deep as an echo in a mountain pool.

"Kill the demon."

And as one, the pack of spectral hounds turned, voicing chopping bays that made the very trees shiver in the crystalline air.

Hellboy blinked, surprised. But as the enormous dogs flowed towards him, mouths agape and silvered froth flecking crimson lips, he stiffened in resolve, his jaw jutting.

"Aw ... _crap_!"

But any further words were cut short as he was punched back and disappeared under the savage, muscular bodies of the hounds of the Wild Hunt.

* * *

Inside the house, Chris Larabee and his team watched, amazed, as Garanhir and the Wild Hunt coalesced and became whole, more solid forms in the yard of Larabee's beloved ranch. Chris had to admit the world had suddenly become something neither he nor his team were wholly prepared for – there were indeed things that went 'bump' in the night, and right now he felt his gut churn in both wonder and fear. Fear for his team, fear for Hellboy … and in a way, fear for his own sanity. For he realised now that not everything in this world – or out of this world – could be rationally explained. Chris Larabee was not a man who took kindly to having his perception of the world thoroughly shaken.

But as the team watched Hellboy brace up to Garanhir, Josiah looked over at his friends.

"I got a bad feeling about this, fellas …"

JD squinted in the darkness.

"Can you make out what they're talking about?"

Vin shook his head. Even his keen hearing could not make out the rumble of words over the noise of the massive hounds as they milled around the antlered being's feet.

"Nope. Don't look too good though," he added as they watched Hellboy gesticulate with his gun.

His opinion was suddenly validated as Garanhir's blow sent Hellboy smashing into the barn doors.

"Jesus!" Buck said loudly.

"Shit!" growled a thoroughly pissed-off Chris Larabee. "I just got those fixed!" Then he frowned, worried as hell but relieved to see Hellboy trudge back into the yard.

But Team Seven were not prepared for what happened next. They saw Garanhir's arm raise and point it at Hellboy … saw the red agent brace himself for a second … then recoiled as one when Hellboy disappeared under the roiling bodies of the huge hounds, his duster coat swirling and huge fist flying.

"That's it!" yelled JD, pulling his gun. "We can't just stand here - "

Larabee checked the load on his own weapon, but put a restraining hand on JD's shoulder.

"Wait."

"Wait? Chris, are you nuts?"

Buck Wilmington was already at the door ready to go out there and wade into the fray.

Larabee nodded, muscles jumping along his jaw.

"I know, Buck … dammit, I _know_! But that thing wants something from us, I can tell. It looked right at us! It knows we're here … _shit_! I think it knows _Ezra's_ here!" His eyes narrowed. "Did you think of that? This thing wants Ezra, and Hellboy told us to stay _put_! God knows I want to go get these bastards, but - "

He was interrupted by a jarring crash as something impacted on the side of the house, and the agents flattened against the wall. Diablo didn't let up in his howling. Peering out of the window cautiously, Josiah saw a hound drag itself upright from where Hellboy had thrown it. Shaking its head slowly as if to clear it, the hound blinked once or twice then leaped forward to join its pack, huge jaws closing tight on Hellboy's thigh.

Hellboy let out a yell of pain and his massive stone hand battered at the beast, but the rest of the hounds clamoured around him, snapping, baiting, darting in and worrying at the leather-clad demon. Hellboy fought back. Smashing blows sent hounds tumbling, huge, powerful fingers dug into muscled necks, trying to snap the vertebrae or grasping the beasts hard enough to fling them away from his increasingly torn frame. He roared his anger, massive shoulders flexing with every blow, the Right Hand of Doom powering into the mass of hairy bodies. His strength was astounding.

But the hounds were merciless. Hellboy raged and swore and fought, sweat sheening his crimson skin in the clear moonshine. But as Team Seven watched helplessly, the sweat on Hellboy's body became increasingly mingled with dark streams of blood pouring from a multitude of wounds.

Another hound leapt from behind, jaws clamping onto Hellboy's left shoulder. Teeth sank into heated, slick skin and Hellboy threw back his head in agony, teeth bared in a grimace of excruciating pain.

"_Sonofa - !_ "

The Right Hand of Doom reached back over his shoulder and scrabbled at the hound's bloody pelt, but the animal just shifted its grip, avoided the stone-like fist and bit down once more, causing yet more blood to soak into the now torn-to-ribbons duster coat. Another hound took advantage of Hellboy's momentary distraction and chopped viciously at Hellboy's upper arm, tearing muscle and sinew and leaving a gaping, bloody gash. Hellboy sank to his knees … and the hounds swarmed on him as though he was a downed boar.

Josiah blanched.

"Chris – we have to do something. I can't …" The profiler's rich baritone was rough with distress.

Larabee's face was stiff, as though carved from the same material as Hellboy's unearthly right hand. He thought for a moment, and then glanced at Josiah.

"Josiah, just how invulnerable is Hellboy? I mean, he's a demon, right? Can he - "

"Die?" Josiah finished the sentence for him. He nodded, sombrely. "Yeah – he can die. He's tough … but he's not immortal."

Chris narrowed his eyes, and then nodded.

"Okay. That's it guys, let's get out there – not you, Ezra!" he added, seeing the undercover agent check the load on his gun.

Ezra's green eyes widened in surprise, and a blaze of indignation sparked through him.

"Mr Larabee, if you think I'm - "

"I don't think, Ezra – I know. Your butt's staying inside. Hellboy said you were safe as long as you stayed in the house, so for once in your goddamn life do as you're told and stay put!"

"But - "

"Ezra – shut up." Josiah's voice nipped any further protestations in the bud and Standish sank back against the wall. Glowering and not a little desperate, Ezra was exasperated, terrified … and shocked at the determination on his comrades' faces. And the sounds coming from outside made his stomach roil – Hellboy was dying out there. The big agent was getting torn to pieces to protect _him_ – Ezra Standish.

But before he could object further, his team mates were shoving a protesting Diablo into the living room, shutting the door behind them … and then they were barrelling out of the front door into the fracas in the yard.

* * *

The pain was excruciating. Hellboy was pinned down, the frozen ground around him now slippery with his blood, and his vision was beginning to spangle with stars and black, floating motes … the precursor to unconsciousness. Every bit of him seemed to be being bitten upon or torn, his ears filled with the snarls and deep growls of the huge hounds as they ripped into his powerful frame with supernaturally sharp teeth. Their eyes glowed red in the light, and he swore loudly and vehemently – if there had been just two or even three of the creatures he would not have worried, for although his body would have taken some punishment, he would have beaten the crap out of them and then some. But there were over a dozen of them – too many. _Too damn' many_.

"GAH!" he bellowed, as he managed to throw one huge dog against the barn wall, only to have another tear his side. He felt more blood spill, soaking into the leather belt and pants. They were killing him, and there wasn't a goddamn' thing he could do about it.

He flailed his heavy stone hand and latched onto a furry body, holding tight, and his tail swung around and upended another hound that was trying to munch on his leg, sending the beast yelping away for a few moments. If only he could stand up … he could get his balance and _then_ the sonsabitches would pay! He tried to heave himself up and over onto his knees, knocking back hounds as he went, but they were too many … another punched into his powerful chest and slammed him back against the bole of a nearby tree. The trunk shuddered and cracked ominously under the impact, and Hellboy thought for a moment he had broken his back. But, miraculously, his spine still worked and he managed to brace himself against the gnarled bark, boots frantically scrabbling for purchase on the blood-soaked earth. Back to the tree, he felt at least in a little more control as he attempted to smash at the hounds assailing him from all sides. But they flowed about him like water, jaws agape and eyes wild with blood-lust. They crunched into him and for long, agonising moments Hellboy disappeared from view, driven down once more under the pile of howling bodies.

But suddenly the pack exploded backwards away from the tree and Hellboy, as the demon summoned the last of his fast-waning reserve of strength and with a roar of effort and pain flung huge, wolf-like bodies away from his bloody figure. The hounds tumbled away, yelping and howling, some slamming into buildings, others crashing into the corral fence, demolishing it like matchsticks.

Hellboy staggered once more to his feet, head hanging, tail latched around the tree to keep his balance. He swayed, putting out his human hand to prop himself against the trunk.

Garanhir studied him curiously, head cocked to one side.

"You have fought well, demon. 'Tis a pity you have to die for a mere mortal - "

The tall, antlered figure was interrupted by a barrage of shouts from the house and turned to see six men tumble out of the doorway, guns at the ready.

Garanhir smiled in triumph.

"See? They come, demon, as I knew they would. They come to save you. How _human_ of them."

The hounds, now recovered from their momentary chaos, reformed into a pack and, ignoring the six agents, started back towards Hellboy. But a small noise from Garanhir stopped them. His long, clawed hand gestured at Larabee and his men as they lined up under the clear, cold gleam of the full moon, the light of battle shining in their eyes.

Garanhir frowned.

"Where is he? Where is the priest's spawn?"

Hellboy raised his battered face, the blood oozing from cuts in his chiselled features. He ignored it and took a deep breath, hitching as the pull of broken ribs hurt his side.

"Still in the house, chunk-face – where d'you think?" His voice came hoarse with pain, but still strong enough to elicit a bitter chuckle from the bleeding chest.

"And you'll have to go through us to get him!" Chris growled, his dander up, although he could feel his heart in his mouth, his chest tight with fear. Gun runners were one thing … supernatural beings were quite another – especially seeing the damage they had inflicted on Hellboy, who wasn't exactly a ten-stone weakling.

Garanhir sighed.

"No matter – he will come out when his friends begin to die."

And with a gesture of the long fingers he sent the Wild Hunt charging at the six men before them.

* * *

Ezra Standish stood watching through the living room window, seeing the fight go down in the yard.

The six men who had their backs to him as they faced down the Wild Hunt were no amateurs – they split up as soon as the Hunt was set upon them, the hounds following close behind. Buck and JD ran and vaulted over a sturdy fence that separated the yard from the tiny green lawn at the side of the house and they aimed and fired at the three hounds that loped their way. The bullets slammed into lean, enormous bodies and the hounds yelped. Slinking back a little they snarled, lips curling back over bloody teeth. Buck grinned. Even though the beasts were not really hurt, they could at least be driven back for a moment or two.

Vin reached up and grabbing the edge of the porch roof, swung himself up onto it with the agility of a monkey. Once there he drew his gun once more and pumped a few rounds downwards at the two hounds that attempted to follow him – standing on their hind legs they were tall enough to snap at his denim-clad legs, causing the sharpshooter to hurriedly draw them out of the way. His bullets stung them enough to make them drop to the ground and look for another way onto the porch roof to get at him.

With Josiah and Nathan backing him up, Chris did exactly the opposite of everything he had been taught in his career with the ATF – he charged the enemy full-on. Josiah's heavy Magnum boomed to his left, and a hound tumbled yipping away from them, and he saw Nathan in the corner of his eye split off and pelt over to Hellboy, the huge red agent now crumpling to his knees. Nathan sent a couple of well-placed shots into two enormous hounds which fell back growling, then he dropped to his own knees beside Hellboy.

Chris raised his weapon and aimed at Garanhir.

"Tell them to back off – _now_!" he hissed, the barrel of his automatic trained unerringly on Garanhir's chest.

"Chris … I don't think that's gonna work …" Josiah slid to a halt beside him, jawline working.

Garanhir laughed … the same, pagan laugh that had chilled Hellboy's blood and was now doing the same to Larabee and his men. The huge, horned head threw back and the deep, throaty laughter bubbled from his chest, the goat eyes closed in pleasure. Larabee began to squeeze the trigger.

"Hey! Stinky!"

Both Chris and Garanhir turned at the baritone voice, roughened now with pain. Hellboy stood straight and tall, Nathan at his side. Hellboy's stone hand was clenched in readiness, despite his obvious injuries. Nathan held his handgun pointed at Garanhir, his dark eyes fathomless in the moon-glow. Hellboy's eyes glittered amber-gold and he cocked his head to one side quizzically.

"You want some of me, you overgrown goat? Well, come get it, fuzz-butt!"

Garanhir allowed himself a snort of humour ... and suddenly swept forward with unbelievable speed, the blow from his swinging arm sending Chris and Josiah sailing through the air to crunch painfully into the side of a horse trough and the corral respectively. Nathan had just enough time to register the fact that Chris lay in a crumpled, stunned heap and that Josiah had slammed agonisingly against the corral fence and dropped to the ground, before Garanhir was upon him.

A shot rang out from the porch roof and the huge being faltered a little but didn't stop in his lunge for both Hellboy and the tall, dark medic. Vin cursed as he saw Garanhir unceremoniously shove Nathan out of the way, Nathan's own hastily triggered shot going wildly – and uselessly – into the night sky.

Buck and JD aimed a few shots at the being, but their attention was soon taken up by more hounds circling them, but the beasts did not attack – they just made enough of their threat to keep the two agents pinned down and occupied. Vin too was trapped – hounds patrolled beneath him and around the rear of the building – and he realised he was royally stuck. Chris was on his knees, shaking his head to clear it, Tanner was relieved to see, but Josiah was trying to rise and failing miserably. _Broke ribs, Josiah – keep still, you big fool, 'fore you put a rib through your lung_, he thought, gritting his teeth and shuffling even further back on the roof as two hounds tried to reach him. Apparently though, they were just supposed to keep the rest of Team Seven occupied as Garanhir dealt with Hellboy.

Garanhir's taloned fingers caught Hellboy by the shoulder and dug in, just as the enormous stone hand came around in a powerhouse of a blow, taking Garanhir in the side just below the raised arm. The antlered head arched back and there was a roar of pain ... but he didn't let go. Hellboy was jerked off his feet and suspended six feet in the air, his fingers scrabbling at Garanhir's superhumanly powerful forearm. The columned fingers pounded on the corded muscles but Garanhir ignored Hellboy's attempts to dislodge his grip, and he tightened his own fingers in Hellboy's already damaged shoulder. Each taloned digit dug into the red flesh ... and blood began to stream down Hellboy's chest and back as nails gouged his already battered body.

"Son ... of ... a ... BITCH!" Hellboy bawled, twisting his grip to try and grasp Garanhir's biceps. Failing miserably Hellboy whipped his tail around, slamming it into Garanhir's already bruised side but the being just laughed, his other taloned fist clawing across Hellboy's chest. Hellboy let out a grunt of pure agony that was cut off abruptly as the vice-like fingers curled around his throat and tightened, cutting off his air supply. Slowly but surely, Garanhir began to choke Hellboy to death.

The yellow goat-eyes narrowed in amusement as he watched the big demon fight futilely against the death-grip on his throat, and then he swung around to the house, ignoring the incapacitated men around him.

"Human!" His voice ran through the chilled night air like an icicle. "Spawn of an unchaste priest! Bastard get of an unholy creature! Come and meet your doom ... release us, and this ... this _demon_ ... will live ... as will these other mortals. Come! It is your time! Face your ending, human, and these others will not face theirs!"

There was a moment's silence, only broken by the harsh breathing of the ATF agents and the struggle of constricted lungs as Hellboy fought to drag air into his tortured lungs. He knew he could beat the crap out of this big moron, but he was having problems getting a grip with his stone hand on any part of Garanhir that would make an impact, and he even lashed out with a booted heel, smashing wickedly into the being's groin … but to no effect. Hellboy would have snorted in disgust if he wasn't being garrotted. _Damn … the first goat I ever met that's got no goddamn' balls …_ and groaned as the grip on his throat tightened even further.

He was on the point of passing out when he thought he heard something … a shout. Someone was shouting. What the crap was there to shout about? His stone hand tried uselessly to pry taloned fingers away from his battered larynx. Jeez, but this thing had some grip! Garanhir's other hand squeezed like a giant vice and if Hellboy had had breath to scream he would have done just that.

The shouting got louder and Garanhir swung around and straightened, Hellboy dangling from his grasp like a blood-drenched toy. He smiled.

"Yes … at last!" he rumbled. "_At last! We are free!_"

"NO!" yelled Chris as he watched the front door of the ranch house open, and Ezra Standish walked over the threshold of the house, out of the guardianship of the ancient magic that protected him, and stood before them in the moonlit night with Diablo at his side, wild eyes a-glitter and baying ferociously as though he was the very hound of hell himself.

TBC


End file.
